


Problem Sleuth, An Observant and Urbane Gentleman

by sandlaw



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:50:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8286478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandlaw/pseuds/sandlaw
Summary: "Three decades ago, London was stolen by bats. Dragged deep into the earth by the Echo Bazaar. The sun is gone. All we have is the gas-light of Mr Fires. But Londoners can get used to anything. And it's quiet down here with the devils and the darkness and the mushroom wine. Peaceful.But then YOU arrived."In which sandlaw plays Fallen London as Problem Sleuth and writes tiny snippets based on his adventures. It's good writing inspo! http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/





	

**Author's Note:**

> 15 October, 1894 (Spite)

_ The icy fog cuts like a sharp word. Best stay inside and shovel coal into the fire. _

 

You wake up with a shake that vibrates in your bones and clatters your teeth together like cheap bone dice. Yanking your feet back under your sparse covers does little to nothing to ward the cold away. 

You spend the next few minutes debating between moving through the cold air at all, or remaining sparsely content under the covers before the temptation of fireside warmth eventually gets you out of bed. The warped floorboards feels more like textured ice than wood. 

You’re only halfway down the stairs when you realize the hearth’s already running at full blast. Which is odd, considering how the only other person who lives here left more than three hours ago for the church house hymns. 

You keep your steps light and your presence lighter while rounding the corner, but apparently your sneaking’s gotten a bit rusty from your years in Newgate. The small bundle of rags huddled close to the hearth turns quickly, eyeing you with two beady eyes. He gives you a once over before seeming to deem you nonlethal before turning back to the fire, hands outstretched.

You pinch the bridge of your nose between a thumb and forefinger, half to ward off sleep and half out of stress habit. The street urchin can’t be any older than ten or twelve, yet he’s in your host’s parlour like he owns the damn place. You just hope he’s a lockpicker, not a lock breaker. 

The cold’s still in your toes though, so you pull up a chair close to the hearth to the left of the ratty bundle and let the warmth sink into your skin. 

“You better not be planning on stayin’ here for long,” you finally say, trying to sound firm and not at all like you just crawled your way out of bed a few minutes ago. 

“Can’t say my host will take kindly to seein’ a street urchin in her parlour while I was home.” And wouldn’t that be a spectacle. Getting thrown to the curb after all the work you went through to convince this kind, conservative widow that you were just a broke, gentlemanly traveler in need of temporary board, and not at all an ex con-slash-jailbird.

He seems to pick up on your discontent quickly, because he looks you over again before opening his mouth. He’s missing multiple teeth, and on a few syllables you swear you can see green in his gums. You start to genuinely feel bad for the kid. 

“Tell you what, guv,” he says with an optimistic tone, the kind that only expert fibbers can work. “I’ve got some decent junk stashed on ya roof. Let me warm up, n’ I’ll share it wiv ya.” He shrugs, the layers of dirty patchwork on his back rising and falling to an almost comical degree.

You try not to get too up in arms about the fact that he’s been using your roof as a hideaway.

Instead, you let the idea roll in your head, watching the flames flicker over black coals for a while before letting out a short sigh. Well. Why the hell not? It’s not like you have much to lose. Your host won’t be back until late, and you’re sure you won’t have any issues sneaking the kid out back if need be. Besides, you’ve had your eye on a jacket in Dauncey’s, and since your current profession barely pays your share of the bills, you figure having a trinket or two to pawn off might be good for your savings. 

“Alright, just keep your mitts off anythin’ that ain’t yours,” you say sternly, pointing at him for emphasis. He looks at your finger and gets real close to what seems like the beginnings of a derisive snort before he thinks better of it, and instead turns back to face the fire. He wiggles his toes through the hole in both his mismatched socks and shoes before letting his chin rest onto his knees. 

“Yea, a’course, appreciate it guv,” he says sleepily, before dozing off right then and there. For a kid, he snores like he’s eighty, you note, stretching out your legs yourself. 

Before you know it, you end up nodding off into a nap too. But not before you make a mental note to see if you can send the kid off with a roll or two for the road. After all, street urchins always seem to have the best secrets, so why not start your networking now? 


End file.
